So Far, So Good
by m00ofd00m
Summary: Duo is dying inside, and even the people closest to him have failed to notice. Finally, someone tries to break the destructive cycle he's trapped in, but is it already too late? Rated for language,sex,drugs,self-mutilation,past non-con,eating disorders.
1. Whore

Lately I've managed to convince them that I'm better. I'm being more careful, more alert. I lie so well it almost feels like I'm telling the truth when I smile and joke over a dinner I can't taste. And they don't suspect a thing. Well, that's not exactly true; _most_ of them don't suspect a thing. Heero is the one I have to be the most careful around. Quatre is basically convinced by fake smiles and large gestures. He learned to block out the pain he felt from me long ago. Just like everyone else.

It was stupid of me to think that the damage would be irreversible when they found out. Strangely, things only changed for a couple of days, before lapsing back to ordinary again. It's as I've always known; the world still spins, regardless of my pain. The only one who seems to remember that a few short weeks ago they found me lying in my own bloody bathwater, passed out from the combination of exhaustion, drugs, alcohol and blood loss, is Heero. Of course, I didn't tell them about the drugs, but Heero had known about them for years. Not that he ever cared enough to confront me about them. He never cared, even though he alone knows I've been killing myself slowly since I became a pilot.

I find it odd that he's become my enemy in everything. He checks my wrists and legs for cuts, he takes away my razorblades, and lately, he's been going through my room, taking my drugs, alcohol, and even over-the-counter painkillers. He follows me when I go out, and monitors what I buy. I hate him, but a part of me is glad that he's at least noticing me now.

He will just sit there, staring at me with this dark knowledge in his eyes, calculating how I've fucked up today. Some day I'm just going to grab a knife off the kitchen counter and stab the smug bastard.

The hardest thing for me to swallow is that he does it all damn-near silently. He only yelled once, and I came out of that argument with a split lip and bruised ribs. He hasn't apologized yet. Fucking perfect, silent, calm, freak that he is. I haven't succeeded in breaking his façade at all. Even when he beat me up, he was cold and deadly about it, handling it the same way he handles routine interrogations on OZ soldiers. He's everything I'm not, and I hate that. I hate being second to someone so inhuman. He doesn't care about anyone or anything. The only reason he cares about me all of a sudden is so I'm still good for missions. If he thought I wasn't useful anymore he'd dispose of me in an instant. I know he's threatened on countless occasions. And Heero Yuy doesn't make empty threats.

On the other hand, sometimes I think that being angry at him is the only thing that keeps me sane at all. As long as I can hate him I have something to hold on to.

* * *

I've locked myself in my bedroom. I can't take them anymore. I just want to unwind, away from their judging eyes. I know I have approximately seven minutes before Heero will follow me, and I have to make good use of that time. I have to be gone before then.

Sighing, I peel off my shirt and pants, taking my boxers off too after a second of thought. I shove them into a drawer and find a pair of tight vinyl pants. They're not the most comfortable things, but they look very nice on the dance floor. I decide between a full-sleeved shirt and a cropped mesh tank-top. Fuck it; I want to get laid tonight, don't I? I pull on the tank-top, loop a belt around my thin hips, push earrings into place and dust my face with make-up. The eyeliner is last; thick and perfect for accenting my too-large eyes. I would do more, but I'm running out of time. I slip a packet of powder and money inside my waistband, knowing I'll need it later, The window is already open, and I'm grateful because it makes a lot of noise. I hang from the sill and drop the rest of the way to the ground, landing almost-silently. Heero still could have done better.

Once out of the house I run to the garage, glad that I'd left my motorcycle outside earlier when I was fixing it. It makes a shocking amount of noise when I start the engine. If they didn't know I was leaving before, they sure as hell do now. It's okay though, because I'll be gone before they can even look out the window. I no longer care if Heero's following me. Right now, I just need to get out, no matter what the cost.

By the time I reach the heart of downtown I'm freezing and worried again about being followed. My moments of brave stupidity never did last long. Shutting the bike off in the back of some posh club I've never been inside, and have no intention of going into, I use the shadows to make it unseen to the other side of the street. A few guys leer at me and I leer back. They don't try to make good on their suggestions though and I keep going, occasionally ducking back into the shadows to survey the streets for signs of Heero or the others. I feel oddly let down when I don't see any of them. Apparently they've already forgotten about me.

Finally, my destination – Club Zero. Not too rich, but classy all the same. I like this place. It has great people and good music. The interior screams sex, and who am I to deny? It's what I came here for anyways. I give the bartender a few credits and order a shot of straight whiskey. The lingering burn in my throat is enough to get me out onto the dance floor, immediately grinding against an older boy in leather pants. Throwing my arms over my head and swaying my hips to the beat I can practically _feel _as it pulses around me, I am gratified to see that I have caught the attention of several people. I pick my prey carefully. He looks too high to be a threat, but danger shines in his eyes. He looks me over with blatant innuendo, his hands sliding down to cup my ass as we dance together. I've always liked a little danger with my sex, and as I fully intend to end this night against a wall or bathroom stall with someone's cock buried in my ass, I don't mind his dominant attitude at all. I wind up plastered against him as we move to the trance music pouring out of speakers above us. His grip is too tight, and it hurts, but I like that too.

When we make our way off the dance floor, I am pinned against a table for a searing kiss, the scant amount of clothes between our bodies making both of our needs evident. "Not here," I pant harshly, pushing him up.

He grabs hold of my wrist and I am practically dragged to the men's bathroom. Again, he slams me against the nearest wall, ignoring the only other occupant in the room as he gropes me, reaching quickly to pull the zipper down the front of my pants. I press my lips to this throat, kissing his adam's-apple and eagerly biting his exposed collarbone, trying to leave a mark there, so he might remember me tomorrow morning. He hisses slightly and shoves his hand down my pants. The other one grips my side painfully. I buck against his fingers, moaning like a whore as my lips find his nipple, sucking hard.

A second later he pulls me up, still fondling me, and throws me against the white sink. I scrabble for purchase on the slick surface. Glancing up at my reflection, I meet his gaze in the mirror and reach to push my pants farther down my hips. "Fuck me?" I ask in my sweetest, most whisper-raw voice. He laughs, grinding his erection into my ass.

I pull his fingers to my mouth, coating them in saliva and writhing as he pushes two in at once. It hurts a bit and I love it, crying out softly. He doesn't bother with a third finger, guiding his erection into place, beginning to push. I know I'm probably going to tear, and I relish the thought rather than fear it. "Yes! Please, now," I plead, moving my body backwards, forcing him inside me. It is all the encouragement he needs, and suddenly he slams the rest of the way inside me, grabbing my long hair and pulling sharply. The pain is beautiful and I scream as I ride each wave of ecstasy. He goes deeper and more brutal with each thrust, but it's not quite enough to make me lose it. I hold onto the sink I am bent over, watching him fuck me in the mirror. It strikes me that I don't even care if we're seen. I've done this so many times that it wouldn't bother me if Sister Helen walked in on us. What a though to have during sex.

"Harder," I scream, wanting to feel more. He hits _that_ spot and I'm seeing stars, the perfect mix of intense pain and pleasure achieved. He wraps his fingers around my erection and I know he's about to lose it. When he does, I finally let go as well, following him into bliss, the force of orgasm letting me drift for those few precious seconds.

He pulls out, alcohol-tinged breath dancing on my shoulder and I want to feel him again and again and again. I've always loved it when they play rough with me.

He zips himself up and I do the same, glancing at my reflection in the mirror. My makeup is smeared and I fix it, watching our figures in the glass as he leaves the bathroom without looking back.

The sting of rejection sets in, and I realize for the millionth time that I am worth nothing to these people who use me, and who I use in turn. I will never be worth anything to anyone. I stretch, shaking the thoughts out of my head and press fingers against my hips where bruises are already starting to make themselves known.

I almost wish Heero could see me like this; looking debauched and yet still undeniably innocent. I have that effect on people. It makes them want to break me. I like being broken. I'm addicted to bleeding.

* * *

The ride home is uneventful and I still see no sign of Heero or the others. So naturally, I wasn't expecting Heero to be awake at two-thirty in the morning, but I should have known better.

"You smell like sex and alcohol," he says calmly as I climb in the window to my room.

"Last I checked, your room was three doors to the left." I reply with equal bluntness. That's the beauty of being me. Nothing can faze me for long.

"Duo, I thought I made it clear that you weren't to leave this house." He practically growls.

"And you actually thought I'd listen to you? Who's the crazy one now?"

Not in the least bit self-conscious (what's left to be self-conscious about?) I lift the tank-top over my head, cursing as an earring gets stuck in the mesh. The pants are next, and I don't hesitate to slide out of them completely, left stark naked in the middle of my room. He is watching me from the shadows, taking in the bruises and cuts as I stand there.

"What were you doing out there?" he gestures out my window, and his stare is starting to unnerve me.

I turn, halfway through pulling out my earrings. "I thought that was obvious."

"Hn."

"Really now Heero, even you're not that stupid. Maybe I just have to show you…" I sway my hips and raise my eyebrows. He looks disgusted.

"Hn." He's purposefully not responding now.

"Fuck you." I say it lightly, but behind that I'm deadly serious.

"Go take a shower," the dismissal in his voice stings. I hate the way his lip curls in disdain as he looks me over. I hate that he's right to be contemptuous of me.

"Look, if you must know what I was doing, I went to a dance club, I let some guy on heroin fuck me in the men's toilet and then I came back here." I'm yelling at the end of my statement, just because I can, and he can't do anything about it.

"You let some guy you didn't even know fuck you in the bathroom of some sleazy club?" Heero repeats bluntly, anger warring with disbelief on his face.

"And I liked it." I fill in helpfully, smirking. "He was a good lay. Too bad the heroin's going to kill him sooner or later." I know I sound cold, and it makes me proud. You can only deal out so much death before you become numb to it.

"Damn it, Duo, do you think this is all about you?"

I gape at him, not sure what to say. Of course it's all about me. They _made_ it about me.

"How much did he pay you?" Heero asks coldly.

I feel my back stiffen. It hurts. It hurts to realize that I've been reduced to something so low in his eyes. I try to hide my reaction, but he sees it anyways. I still can't say anything.

"Come on Duo, if you like it so much, why not tell me more? Was he the only one you seduced with your sweet ass, or did you let the whole club have their way with you?" he's being cruel now, something glittering in his eyes.

I see an opening now, a way to snatch back the upper hand, and I'm more than willing to take it.

"Don't be jealous Heero, I saved plenty for you." I slide my naked body against his, pretending not to see the way he's looking at me; like I'm below dirt.

"Get away from me." He hisses.

I don't move, except to slide my hand down his front, massaging the bulge I find there. "Looks like someone's interested."

"Get off of me, you slut!" he yells, throwing me against the bed.

I laugh. I don't know why, but I laugh. I can see him staring at me with a sort of fascinated horror, but I don't care.

I should feel like I've won, making him lose it like that, but I just feel sick.

"If you touch me again, I will break every bone in your hand," he says, staring down on me as the laughter fades from my lips. I can tell he's serious.

"But Heero, I was only kidding." I whine, still playing my part.

He sneers, and it makes me feel dirty.

"Just go take a shower, Duo."

I don't move for a very long time after he is gone. The tears sting in my eyes, but I know I can't cry.

When I do get up, it's only to retrieve the packet of white powder from the inside of my discarded pants. Grasping my prize, I flop back on the bed, still naked, and prepare to let it all go.


	2. Sinking

The next morning, armed with a few drops of speed in my morning coffee, I smile brightly at the assembled pilots. I joke and force down the required amounts of food as they watch me.

All but one of them, that is. Heero isn't at breakfast. I pretend not to notice his absence, but each time my gaze flickers past his empty seat I feel my body twitch.

Halfway through breakfast, Wufei gets predictably annoyed by my endless chattering and tells me to shut up.

I wonder briefly if he would be any nicer to me if I slept with him. The idea has it's good points, and with a touch of shock, I realize that I'm actually contemplating it. I bet that if I pushed him the right ways, he might even be able to give me what I need.

I find myself weighing each pilot, evaluating their potential as bed-partners.

Trowa, for all of his elegant control, had to have a dark side. I was confident that I could coax it to come out and play.

Quatre would be infinitely easier to manipulate after sex. He would feel obligated to treat me with respect and concern from then on.

And how sweet would it be to see Heero's face when he realizes that I'd slept with all of them but him? He would be furious. In fact, he might just finish me off then and there.

Quatre breaks my reverie by asking where my arch-nemesis is. No matter that it probably has nothing to do with me, I tense. Trowa is watching me now as well, eyes glittering with knowledge.

"Where were you last night?" Trowa finally speaks, voice perfectly devoid of concern.

I don't answer right away because something has stuck my tongue dryly to the roof of my mouth.

"Why don't you tell them, Duo?" Heero says from the doorway, and I realize that's he's effectively trapped me in the kitchen. I duck my head, afraid to say anything.

His laughter is cold and hurts my head.

Forcing a smile that could never reach my eyes, I look up. Lying is so much easier anyways.

"I went for a little ride. I needed some air. Sorry I was so careless you guys. I'll tell you before I go out next time." If I'm being generous to myself, I almost sound sincere. Almost, but it wavers under the intensity of Heero's stare.

Quatre of course smiles, always ready to forgive and forget. "That's okay Duo. We all start to feel a little cooped up from time to time."

I make the mistake of thinking that it's over for now. Heero obviously has other ideas.

"Stop with the pretenses, Duo. You can tell them, or I will. Either way, this behavior ends now."

Even Wufei is looking at me with interest now.

I growl and throw myself at him, hoping to get past and out the door. Instead, I end up pinned to the floor by Heero's full weight. I do the only thing I can think of; thrust my hips into his, grinding against him. He's off me in a second, towering above me, eyes flashing. "You are a shameless whore, Duo," he hisses.

Quatre gasps and I tense up everywhere, a smile still plastered on my face. I know better than to react.

"Where were you really?" Trowa asks for the second time, and I could swear he knows something.

"I was at a club," I grind out through the smile. Trying not to flinch under Heero's gaze.

"And tell them what you did there," Heero spits.

"Fuck you!" I scream, dropping the mask in favor of anger.

"Wrong answer, and unless I'm confused, you already tried. Too bad for you that I won't sleep with the first piece of ass too high to say no." He's pissed now, and I find it amusing.

Quatre's mouth is gaping and it's a wonder his brain hasn't fallen out yet. I have the strange urge to laugh. The situation is hilarious, as much as I'm scared shitless right now.

"Someone had better explain." Wufei says, looking back and forth between Heero and I.

The smile is back, and I let it go chillingly vacant. All of their eyes are on me now. Suddenly, I make a dash for the hallway. Heero isn't ready, and I shoot past him, making it all the way to my room unhindered.

I lock the door and retreat to the center of my bed, hiding under the covers like some scared child.

I wait to hear voices on the other side of the door, to have Heero break it down and drag me back down there, but nothing happens. After a moment, I pull the comforter down and crawl out of bed, locking myself in the bathroom adjoined to my room.

A search under the toilet lid results in a package of already-separated razor-blades and more cocaine.

I test one of the blades to make sure it is sharp enough, and end up with a wound of satisfactory depth after the first try. Very sharp then.

Peeling off my boxers I sit cross-legged on the floor, naked except for a thin gray tank-top. My too-small arms are crisscrossed with old scars. The pale insides of my things are covered in dark gaping lines as well. Some of them were so deep that even though they are healed, if I were to press my fingers against them through a layer of clothing, I would feel thick, ropey scar-tissue through the fabric. Heero has obviously seen all of them, but never commented.

I drag the razor down the creamy white skin inside my thigh, gasping at the sheer cold, exquisite feeling. From the first cut, I'm floating, and there is no going back now.

I press the blade to my flesh again and again, letting the blood flow in tiny rivulets down my body.

When I stand and look at myself in the mirror, I think that the contrast of nearly black blood against my cream-color skin is the loveliest thing I've ever seen.

I don't attempt to stop any of the eagerly bleeding cuts, content to let every single drop roll down my legs and pool on the floor.

As I step, I leave behind a trail of bloody footprints on the white tile, and I think that this too is beautiful.

I am woken from my contemplation of the color red by loud banging on the door.

_'Fuck.' _And just like that, it all comes back to me, and I think I am going to be physically sick.

"Duo, open the goddamned door or I'm breaking it down!"

I give up on holding back and hurl into the nearby toilet helplessly, trying to breathe with little success.

Behind me there is a crash and then someone is shouting, but I'm still throwing up, over and over again. Dry heaves wrack my thin body and finally, finally a cool hand touches my back, rubbing in small reassuring circles.

Slowly, my breath begins to regulate itself again and the heaves stop, but I'm cold and there is nothing left in me. I start to slump forward and someone catches me. I fall against warm skin instead of a hard floor.

"Duo, what have you done to yourself?" the voice asks, thick with unnamed emotion. I don't answer; I don't have the strength.

"You're killing yourself, Duo. And it's killing me to watch." Although it's possible I've imagined the last part.


	3. Breathe

This story is my baby. I will finish it, eventually. Until then, updates may be sporatic, but I'll do my best. Don't give up on me! Sorry this chapter is so short! There will be another one soon!

Ah, yes. You will notice that this chapter is from Heero's POV. Tell me what you think of this. I'm not sure how it works with the story line so far. But, since Duo was passed out, I had no choice.

_So Far, So Good_ is now officially dedicated to JOY2, for she is the most brilliant Gundam Wing fanfiction writer on FFnet. If you like angsty!Duo, then go read her fiction NOW. Even if you don't like Gundam Wing at all, she's amazing, and deserves many comments and much praise. Go now, minions, and be awed by the beauty of _The Beginning to an End_. Also check out her RENT fanfiction.

* * *

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**SO FAR, SO GOOD**

chapter three

* * *

I carry Duo to the shower, surprised by how little he weighs. Taking the tank-top off, I settle him under the stream of water. He doesn't fight me or seem to show any signs of recognition whatsoever.

I look at him, taking the moment to really see all the damage as the water leaves his skin a steady flow of red swirling down the drain.

He is dangerously thin, hipbones, ribs, shoulder blades, and collarbone sticking out in sharp relief to his sunken cheeks and concave belly. I watch the crimson as it is carried away and try to count the scars I see. Too many. His arms, ankles, thighs and chest are covered in them. I check his back and notice for the first time that underneath black angel wings tattooed in crisp ink, there are more scars, older ones. They obviously did not heal well, and I wonder what they are from. I try to imagine what demons must lurk in Duo's past to have brought us here, and balk. And yet, he looks so beautiful lying here. He appears so innocent that for one moment I actually believe that he is.

But then I remember the way he rubbed his naked body against mine, shame burning in his eyes as he did it. And I remember the smell of sex and blood lingering on his skin, the way he never smiles anymore. He is a good actor, but nothing more than that. His eyes give away everything, even when he says nothing at all.

* * *

Once I've wrapped him in enough blankets, I sit beside him on the bed to watch, touching first his cheek, tracing along his jaw and finally brushing through his long chestnut hair. He shifts against my hand, mouth opening silently. I almost wish that I could touch him like this when he was awake and thinking clearly. I certainly wish that he hadn't disillusioned me about his _pastimes_. I don't know whether to feel guilty or disgusted. Perhaps a bit of both. I feel guilty for hitting him the other day, and I feel guilty for not stopping him last night. Above all that, I will always regret that I ignored the signs for so long. It was already too late by the time I did find out, and still I waited. I waited years to even question him about it. I found out about the drugs after within the first week of living together, how could I not, and he knew that I knew, and still we both did _nothing_. I let it go until all hope of saving him was gone.

A part of me is still so incredibly disgusted by the idea of Duo with all those different men, and the razorblades, and the drugs, that I have problems forgiving him even now, when he is so obviously broken.

His chest raises and falls with each breath, and I flinch every time his stomach deflates and sinks against his rib-cage. I am struck again by how incredibly unhealthy and frail he is. How close we were to losing him for real this time. I pick up his hand and I can see the dark blue veins beneath his translucent skin. They stick out from his wrist and seem to taunt me, as I'm sure they've taunted Duo many times.

His eyes flutter open, slowly, and I fight the urge to bolt from the room. It's strange, but he is a bigger threat to me than all of Oz's armies. His eyes have always been my weakness, and his as well. Sometimes I will stare at them and try to count the different shades of purple I see there. Today, I hate them, because they show me just how direly I've failed.

"You're awake," way to state the obvious, Heero.

"You're... Heero..." way to state the obvious, Maxwell. I'm almost hurt by the disbelief in his voice.

"I'm surprised you can even remember my name after everything you pulled today." so we're back to this game, are we?

His eyes close, and I know he regrets it. "I'm sorry." he whispers raggedly.

"For what?" I need to hear him say it.

"For treating you like one of them. It was an accident, Heero. I was high, and I needed to win. It was the only thing I knew how to do."

Damn, that hurts.

"I'm sorry too, Duo." I say, choking somewhat on the words. But it's the truth. I am sorry, for so, so many things.

I stand up, walking out the door. I can feel his confused stare following me into the hallway.

"Heero," he calls weakly, "You can't save me." I start to close the door. I don't want to hear this. A second later he adds, "I just like being broken too damn much." I turn away, defeated, leaving him and all the questions in his eyes alone. I can't take it anymore.

* * *

Maybe it's a sign that I'm cracking, that the stress of my training and lifestyle are too much for a fifteen year old boy to take. Maybe I'm going insane and Duo is just the messenger.


	4. Design

Hello adoring fans (just kidding), I was not taking a break, as it might have seemed, but instead I was **disconnected** --_gaspshock--_ by the parentals of infinite evil. I actually have reached the 100 page mark on this story, and the ideas are still coming, so there will be updates (albeit sporadic ones) whenever possible. Don't despair!

Moving on to bigger and better issues:

Dedication: (this is essential, beacuse it signifies that at least I have someone to dedicate this piece of crap to) Elle, you are my love! Thank you so much for all the helpful suggestions, and your cheerleading! This would have taken another month or five if you hadn't just told me to post it. I probably owe this entire story to you. But in order to keep my inspiration, I will need more of "The Beggining to An End" from you as well! _--bows at your feet--_ Everyone else: Go, be amazed, love her as I do (and there will be joy)! Her name is Joy2 and she is a goddess!

And now; on to **REALLY BIG THINGS OF GREAT IMPORTANCE**:

Measure 36... must... be... stopped... if it's the last thing I do. Go, now, vote **NO ON 36** for Oregon. In case you don't know what it is, measure 36 wishes to make an ammendment to the Oregon constitution stating that marriage is between one man and one woman. This is not a happy thing. Don't let Oregon become another of the 37 states who've already banned gay marriage and recognition of gay marriages! Take out large political signs and wave them around on street corners near you!

* * *

**So Far, So Good**

**chapter 4**

I think this must mean I'm crazy. Heero, or someone that looked like him, just took care of me. He didn't yell or hit me; he cleaned me up and then put me to bed. It was... nice... but confusing. Does this mean that he cares, or is he so desperate for a fifth pilot that anything is better than nothing?

_"...it's killing me to watch."_ what the hell is that supposed to mean?

I curl into a tighter ball on the bed. Why couldn't he have done this years ago? Why now? Why, when I had finally resigned myself to being alone?

Is he testing me? Is this a joke? If it is, I think I might kill him.

In the end, I go back to sleep because it's the only escape I have left.

When I wake up, there are voices, soft and loud, angry and consoling, rising and falling against my ears. I want them to go away. I don't want to hear what they're saying.

It's Heero and Quatre. Trowa is there too. Always there to support poor fucking Quatre Reberba Winner.

"He's a mess! If he's really as sick as you say, there's no way he's going on a mission right now!" that's Quatre, always the idealist.

"He's going, Winner. That's all. If he doesn't go, they'll take him back for retraining." Heero's words make me shudder, but I know he's right. I struggle to get up and find that I am indeed, a mess. I ache from bruises and cuts that went too deep. They sting and I'm afraid that I'll pull them apart if I move the wrong way. I manage to get my legs over the bedside, wincing as I do it, thinking there is no way in hell I can battle like this. I stand, gripping onto the table by my bed, but walking is looking terribly complicated at the moment.

The door opens, and I try to look as if I'm not clinging to the furniture for support. Heero is by my side in an instant, checking on bandages and pushing me back onto the bed. I struggle at first. He moves so damn quick and I'm not ready for cold, business-like hands on my thighs. For a second, it scares me into remembering things best left buried, and I want to scream, but I recall just who this is, and just why I can't be looking any crazier than I already do. Catching my breath and smoothing over my fright, I simply ask him, "When do I leave?"

He refuses to look at me, glaring at the bandages under his hands, the wall, anywhere but my eyes. It's not good, then. "Tomorrow morning," he grits out, sounding pained. He knows it may very well be the last battle I fight. Still, he discerns that death is preferable to retraining at the hands of doctor J. I wonder how he would have found that out, but realize I'd rather not know. He probably hacked my files and knows more about me than I do.

"If I'm going to survive, I'll need some help," I whisper, hating myself even as I say it.

He nods, and his grip on my shoulder is too tight, the lines in his face too tense. I know the war has been tough on him as well. "They asked for you specifically. We can't interfere with mission parameters that much. You'll have to do this without backup."

The thought is chilling, but that's not what I was asking for. "Heero, that isn't what I meant. I'm going to need the stuff you took from me. The speed, in particular."

He looks up, shocked into staring directly at me for the first time this morning. "No." I hear the angry disbelief in his voice, but his face is calm.

"Then you'd rather condemn me to death?!" I screech suddenly, unable to hold back. In truth, I'm frozen by terror. I can feel the breaking point hovering just outside my vision. I'm so close to just snapping, screaming, crying, pleading, anything. A distant part of me is amazed that I can still feel this strongly. The tension humming between our bodies is palpable.

"I'm not­­­ – fine." the defeat and disgust in his voice is like a slap. "I'll get it, if that's what you want."

I sigh. "Don't tell me you weren't pumped full of steroids during training. You can't tell me you've never done drugs."

"I've never used any illegal substances, Duo." he sounds like a fucking machine, his words precise, his face empty.

"Well, we can't all be perfect, can we?!" I scream

He gives me an unreadable look. I'd say he looks hurt, but that'd be giving him too much credit.

"If I give them back, you have to promise not to die." I gape at him, not sure I heard him right. Was that just me, or did Heero say something _human_?

"And you have to quit."

"Quit what?" the wariness sets in.

"Everything. All of it. The drugs, the alcohol, the cutting, everything." His face is impassive, unyielding.

I snort, my expression blank even as my heart thuds in my chest at the mere thought.

"Just say that you'll try." he asks.

I clench my hands in the sheets, gritting my teeth. I want to say that I'll try, but I know that I won't. And for some reason, I can't lie to him like that.

"Heero, just give them back." He looks like he expected it, and simply nods, one jerk of his head, short and angry.

Well fuck him. He doesn't know what it's like to have a gnawing, aching emptiness inside of you, begging to be filled by anything, anyone at all. He doesn't know what it's like to be abused until you start to think you need it to survive. He doesn't know what it's like being me.


	5. Mute

So, Ich lebe! Yeah, that's right, I finally got the internet back on my computer, and I'm free to update as frequently as the muses permit! _::dances::_

**Dedication:** So totally dedicatedto the great new chapter of (_The Beginning to an End_)from everyone's favourite author, Joy2. Also to Kat, Chewy, and Sarah, who know me only as the un-street-smart idiot who can't ever seem to spit out a coherent sentence with dignity.

**A/N:** Throughout writing this, things in my life have changed dramatically. From the people I live with finding out about a lot of personal things, to the fact that my girlfriend was practically snatched away and is stuck against her will in Palestine, there have been a lot of problems this year. But strangely enough, they don't seem to effect me so much. I'm not sure what impact that's had on my writing, but I wanted to make it clear that the jumbled nature of this fic is largely due to that fact that it's reflecting the changes in my life. You'll have to be the judge of whether that's worsened the writing here, or bettered it. Tell me what you think in this chapter and the ones to come. I can use all the criticism you can give me.

**WARNING:** This is a lemon. Yes, sorry, it can't be helped. I'll cut it out and post it on another site if someone has a complaint, but we're all old enough to judge for ourselves what we can handle, and if you've made it this far, nothing is going to shock you.

* * *

**SO FAR, SO GOOD  
chapter 5**

Trowa is the one to wake me this time. He's gentle enough when he shakes me, but I still flinch. I hate mornings. They're the end to every illusion.

"Quatre's making breakfast. You've got four hours until you leave." He turns his head slightly and I watch him as he studies my room. He sees the box Heero left for me and moves to pick it up. I don't try to stop him. What's the point?

His eyes widen as he takes in the contents, gaze darting to me and back to the box. "Duo..." it's just a breath, but I can feel shame welling inside of me, like the eager spill of blood from a wound. He looks so horrified. I have to do something. I don't hesitate. I know how to distract people. I've done it my whole life. I stretch a hand to him, grabbing a handful of turtle-neck, and pull. He falls, but lands gracefully, a hand on either side of my torso, eyes directly on level with mine. The first kiss comes easily, second nature to a whore like me.

He tastes like coffee and metal. Coffee for breakfast then, like me. He pulls away quickly, eyes flicking away and down. "What--"

"Shhh..." I wrap my hand in his shirt again, bringing him back to my mouth. I hurt too much to make any sudden moves of my own. The second kiss is much less innocent and I'm surprised at his lack of protest. Almost like he's okay with this. Almost like he expected it. His kiss tells me that he knows what he's doing, but isn't particularly confident about it. His hand moves to my hair, weight shifting onto my thighs and I gasp, pain shooting through my body. He doesn't stop though, other hand going to my neck. I drop the handful of shirt I have and clutch his back, writhing against his hips, letting the pain make this okay. I'm already paying penance this way. His lips leave mine briefly, and I take the moment to drag his shirt up and over his head.

It's almost like eating; you're so hungry and everything sounds good, but then you start to eat and you feel so fucking guilty and you just want it to be over with. I can't believe I'm doing this. But I can't stop either.

"Need you" I gasp out, surprised when cool hands dip beneath my shirt and graze over scars there. More questions in his eyes. I tug the shirt over my own head, amazed by the contrast between my own pale, scarred skin and his deep tan chest. We look so different. Like a Greek god compared to a fucking commoner. Not even a comparison really. I feel so ugly under his curious examination. He touches a first scar, hands trailing over my belly and I feel the muscles there jump under his touch.

"No questions, okay? Just feel." I tell him, fingers deftly undoing his belt, tossing it off the bed, helping him with his pants. He nods, directly into my eyes, and I wonder how much he knows, how much he's guessed. I wonder if it bothers him at all, or if he's just confused. I wish it would bother someone besides me, but I know he's not the person for that. I touch his face and kiss him again, fiercely. He pulls away, softly this time, and I prepare to be told off, but instead he simply asks what I want.

I almost say 'stop me' but end up whispering, "This might be my last day on earth..." instead, begging him not to say no.

He looks so sad. So fucking sad for nothing. If I do die today, I won't be the only one, and it's not as if I don't deserve my fate.

"Just don't stop, no matter what."

"I won't." he promises, soft Latino voice soothing, calming even to me. I smile and glance at his boxers.

"You're overdressed, Trowa."

"So are you." he quips back. I move my hands to the waistband of his pants first, the theory being that if he's already naked, it's too late to back out. He lets me undress him the rest of the way, helping me get them off. I try not to be nervous when it's my turn, but don't succeed. I can feel the torn skin against the cotton, and I don't want him to see it. I wish it was darker, but the morning light is bright enough to read by. He pulls them down, face carefully impassive as the harsh gashes are revealed. When I'm lying completely naked beneath him, my pajamas discarded on the floor, he bends down, kissing the inside of my thigh, above the worst of my cuts. I moan, loudly, fear leaving my mind in a rush of desperate arousal. I want him, I want him to take me, hurt me, use me, fill me. I wrap a leg around his, and flip us over expertly, flinching as I feel scars shift painfully. I grin down at Trowa, glad to have gained this much control over the situation. "Need you so fucking much" I hiss as I ride out pain from the tearing wounds.

"Lube?"

"Don't need it."

"Duo..." there's a wary quality to his voice now, but I refuse to back down. I like a little pain. And it's not like it hurts that much anyways. I've been through so much worse.

"I'll be fine. We can use spit." I smile mischievously. He relents with a nod. If it makes him feel better, I'm not going to argue about it. "I promise, I know what I'm doing." It's the wrong thing to say, but I don't really care anymore. I spit into my palm and run my hand up and down his member. He moans as quietly as possible and I watch the scene hungrily. He really is beautiful. I hope he finds someone worthy in the future. Someone who can give him things I just can't, like a relationship, normalcy, love. I know this is as good as I can do, for either of us.

"Relax. I can do the work." I say, my hand still wrapped around his erection. I lift my hips and then press down, slowly, agonizingly. I grit my teeth to keep from screaming, but little whimpers escape anyways.

His eyes flutter shut and I'm relieved that he's not watching me go through this much pain. When I move, I feel the wounds on my thighs tearing open and I gasp, falling forward, white-hot daggers dragging through my skin as I slump and barely catch myself on shaking arms.

His eyes fly open, inches away from mine, and flick downward, concern in his expression. "Did I hurt you?" he asks and I almost laugh.

As if he could. "No." I grind, trying to ignore all the protests my body is making to the contrary.

"Maybe you should take the lead."

"We shouldn't be doing this. You're hurt." well no shit, Einstein. What gave it away, the blood or the bandages? "I'm fine Trowa, I want this."

"You're sure?" I know he's worried, but this is starting to get tedious.

"Yes Trowa, you really can't hurt me." Not any worse than I can hurt myself, anyways.

We roll over, and this time he's on top. When he pushes back inside me, I let out a strangled shout, which he immediately stifles with his hand. He looks at me, and I can tell he's reevaluating the risks of the situation. Damn Gundam pilots. Sorry Trowa, but it's way too late to back down now. I move, clenching around him. He lets out a cry of his own, softer, but definitely one of enjoyment. He takes over again, hand still on my mouth, warning more than stopping me. Finally, he's just willing to take me, building into a rhythm that sends shocks of both pain and pleasure through my system. He moans as the thrusts get more desperate, less controlled, until he's slamming into me, and I wring the sounds from his lips, louder and louder the closer he gets to his own release.

I've done it again, I've made an essentially good person dirty; brought them down to my level for a moment of cheap thrills.

A second later he finds my prostate and damn his hand, I scream loudly, fingers digging trails into his back as pleasure sears my nerves.

You would think fucking would get old, but somehow it never does. It's kind of like smoking. The first time hurt like fuck, and you swore you wouldn't ever get used to the feeling, but you went back for more the next day, and you didn't really know why. Roughly seven years later, I'm still coming back for more, and I still don't know why. It must classify as some sort of an addiction by now.

Trowa's head is thrown back, and thankfully he's given up on being quiet. I writhe under him, forgetting completely about the torn skin between my legs, and giving over to the rhythm between our bodies. He's pounding into my willing body as hard as he can, our nails tearing at each other's skin desperately, screams combined on our mingled breath, cream mutilated skin contrasting against smooth brown. I feel orgasm so close I'm hardly able to breathe as he shoves into my prostate at the apex of each thrust. I come just before he does, the contractions of my muscles around his cock bringing him with me into ecstasy. His hands wind in my long hair tightly as he screams his release. If everyone in a three mile radius doesn't know what we just did, they'd have to be deaf. Really, really deaf.

Trowa pants, hovering above me, then gently pulls out to lie next to me. We are both silent as our breath regulates, reality setting in again. Reality and a shit-load of guilt on my part. I hate this. I'm afraid to break the silence. I'm afraid to look at him. I know I can never take it back, and I know I will never let it happen again. That was it, the one and only time I will ever have sex with Trowa. I'm not the type of person who can use someone more than once. A person can only be broken one time. Unless they're me, and then they live for it, over and over again.

Finally he rolls over, not looking at me, and whispers, "You're beautiful" and I can feel the regret already taking him away from me.

"I'm sorry." I reply, standing up on shaking legs and walking as fast as I can to the bathroom. His eyes follow me until the door blocks me from site, but he doesn't call me back.

I sit, aching and alone again on the tile floor; how I end most days. I hate the weakness that drives me here, the inherent flaw that makes me seek out sex with a desperation only matched by my love of blood.

For the hundredth time, I wonder how I can make it stop and am faced with the same bleak truth as every time before. I cannot end this cycle, unless by death. And I am Shinigami. It is not my right to die. What kind of death can a black angel have, after all? I touch the wings tattooed into my flesh, fingers knowing the patterns carved there by heart. I can only reach part of the art engraved on my back, but it's comforting to me. They're the only things I've ever gotten tattooed by choice. I have another, but no one will ever see it. It's a tiny number on the inside of my ear: _02_. Pilot-_0_-fucking-_2_. That's all I really am. None of my issues matter in the face of that.

The shaking begins, my teeth chattering for no reason, goose bumps all over my naked body. I make myself sick thinking like this. I'm all too aware of the time ticking until I have to follow orders again, possibly for the last time. I don't think _anyone_ could be happy under those circumstances, no matter how stable they were. And since none of us are prime examples of sanity, it's likely that all of the pilots have their own little traumas and disorders that I will never know anything about.

Oddly, it is Heero whose past intrigues me the most. What could turn a boy into a robot? What did the Doctors do to him that they failed to do to the rest of us? Of us all, Heero is the only one who has no reason to be fighting. The rest of us have our vengeances and retributions. We have our dead companions to fight for. Heero's past is a broken slate, all information shattered and hidden far below the emotionless facade of the Perfect Soldier. Who knows, perhaps that really is his personality. I suspect very much that the truth is a mystery to even him. I wonder what it must be like to have his complete lack of grounding in fear; hatred; desire; all the things that motivate the average human. What motivates the Perfect Soldier? Maybe the only drive he has _is_ his missions. It seems so unreal to someone as human, and as humanly flawed, as me. Perhaps his drive is simply not to fail. Even so, I find his lack of compassion disturbing at best. I know that he can be trusted for nothing beyond cold, hard facts, but still, he has always confused me. And what confuses me tends to fascinate as well. Playing with Heero's mind could very well be even worse for my health than piloting a Gundam, and I can't afford to forget that, no matter how intriguing I find him.

I have been contemplating the mystery that is Heero Yuy for a long time; almost fifteen minutes. That's a fourth of an hour less time until I have to get in my cockpit and be prepared to die for another cause I don't believe in.

I search again beneath the lid of the toilet. Heero, for all his tactical brilliance, can be more stupid than I ever would have thought. He never even checked. There are still three razorblades here. I tape the other two back to the porcelain and hold the small metallic object up to the light, admiring it blankly. I don't know why I'm doing this. I'm already cut up enough as it is.

Without even thinking about it, the blade goes to a deep cut on my thigh, and I flinch as the blade worries beneath the flesh, driving through the fresh blood already caked there. I put my thumb-nail against the place where it disappears into my skin and pull it out. Almost a half an inch deep. I'm going to need fucking stitches. I shrug and drag it down, over the two-day old cut, reopening the places where it had been trying to close. Blood wells up immediately, and the pain is amazing. Sharp and pure as the blade itself. I hiss lightly, cringing more at the thought of what I'm doing than the actual pain. I can't believe how much more this hurts. Usually I don't bother with cuts I've already done. There's plenty of new flesh to mutilate. But today I feel the need to bleed worse than usual. I want to see how deep I can go before I chicken out. Maybe if I die before the mission, there won't be any complications. Someone capable will do it for me, and I won't have to be retrained. I know I'm not that desperate, today anyways. I'll live, and I'll kill as many OZ soldiers as they send, and then I'll crawl back here to lick my wounds in peace.

The thought makes me so angry that I hack deliberately into another open cut. Blood is dripping onto the floor, and I have to force myself to put down the blade. Three freshly bleeding wounds, deeper than before, are feeding tiny rivers between the tiles. My blood is like a grid on the floor, running into the grout and staining it red until I remember to bleach the tile. Or Heero finds it and does it for me. Maybe I won't bleach it. The contrast is beautiful. I sit there, only concerned when I'm still bleeding the at the same rate ten minutes later. There is no sign of it stopping. Worried, in a very distant and lethargic way, I push the flesh together, watching in sick amusement as it peels apart slowly when I let the edges go again, gaping wide and mocking at me. I imagine the scars it will make and for a minute I actually regret doing it. I regret picking up a damn razorblade in the first place. I almost work myself into a panic right there on the bathroom floor. A distant part of my brain wonders if I've hit a vein, if I'll die the one time I didn't mean to. Another part of me says that I've survived much worse. I can even put stitches in myself if I have to.

Thirty minutes. Thirty minutes on the bathroom floor. Shit. Someone's going to come looking for me soon. I have to stop the blood. I have to clean up this mess. I have to look normal, act okay. Standing is intensely painful. But I'm used to pain. I force myself to make it to the cabinet and take out a roll of gauze. I stare at the fragile material for a minute and nearly laugh. It seems so pointless. I've never been good at this part. I'm not capable of dealing with the disasters I leave behind me, not even the ones I write in my own flesh. I can't imagine this flimsy cloth doing any good against the bloody mess that I've made of my thighs. Still, I have no choice but to try. I've been through worse; I've even battled with more grievous wounds than these. The gauze is unrolled on the floor and then wound tightly around my left leg. I stare at the blood soaking through the temporary bandage already and allow myself one sharp bark of laughter, bordering on hysteria. I suppose there's always duct tape. I suppress the next unholy cackle and go back to the cabinet, hissing with each step. Damn baka. Don't you ever think before you go and do fucked up things like this?! The silver tape is almost gone, so I only use enough to hold the dressing closed, saving the rest for later. I wrap my right leg in the same fashion and start the shower. I need to get the scent of my trespasses off of my skin. I already feel like enough of a whore without Trowa's semen drying on my thighs.

I feel slightly more human after I step out of the scalding water. For some reason being clean can give you a whole new perspective. I think that after years of living on L2, where water was precious and nearly non-existent to street-rats like myself, being able to take a bath whenever I want is a luxury I will never take for-granted.

The gauze clings to my legs in pathetic washed red fragments. At least the wounds are somewhat clean now, even if they're bleeding twice as heavily as before. When I'm completely dry, minus my hair, which takes hours to dry if left to its own devices, I go back to the abandoned roll of duct tape. The first bandage is flushed down the toilet, and I wrap the silver material completely around my leg, right over the top of the wound. It's a sort of make-shift pressure bandage, and while it's not the most innovative thing I've ever made, it seems to be working right now. No further blood leaks out from underneath, so I figure I'm all right. It'll hurt like a bitch when I take it off, but that's not something I even have to think about right now. I suppose that's how I do everything. Act first, think later, after I've already gone through the mandatory near-death experience of the day. It's kind of a stupid way to live life, but at least I know I'm in control of my own destiny.

I can stand now, with only a minimal limp. Heero won't even notice. Not that he would even if I was bleeding on the floor in front of him.

There aren't any clean clothes in the bathroom, so I'm forced to take the chance of Trowa still being in the room, although I think the chances of that are pretty slim after my behaviour. I open the door cautiously and peak out, then dash to my closet when I see he isn't there. I dress in the same black of days before, thankful that my chosen color is one that doesn't show blood easily.

After I'm fully clothed, Heero isn't the frightening prospect he had been only minutes earlier. I've got bigger problems, unfortunately. Problems that can't simply be told off or ignored. Heero barely registers as a threat in the face of all the other things I'll be going up against in the next few hours.

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**A/N:** _::gaspshock::_ that was really not a cliffhanger at all, I know, but meh, I can pretend I have command of basic literary elements if I want to! The important thing is that I wish to know whether or not to leave the battle scene coming up in or out. It's not terriblyrelevant to the story line, and it's truly craptacular since I suck at writing fights. It's your choice.


End file.
